


Business As Usual

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coercion, Dubious Consent, Emotional Support Angel, Employee Expectations, Hell Is Awful, M/M, Pining, Sex Work, Temptations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which they both have their miserable quotas to fill, but it helps to have someone to talk to.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Other(s)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 407





	Business As Usual

Crowley gets back three hours later than he expected to.

The infernal note is still on the desk, where he'd tossed it in disgust the night before after reading the words 'lust' and 'personal attention.' The paper has curled in his absence, burnt edges pulling in, like the atmosphere of earth disagrees with it. He dumps his keys, glasses and phone next to it.

The clothes he's wearing don't disappear so much as slowly disintegrate, or cease to exist entirely, before he's even fully inside the bathroom. Not that it matters, he can always make more, he can make whatever he wants. He can pull all manner of clothes out of nowhere, something suitably fashionable, the latest, most expensive, most stylish costume to _perform_ in.

He doesn't even give the mirror a glance as he drifts past it. He knows what he looks like, and he's not in the mood for his own seething judgement.

Of course, he could have just miracled himself clean, he could have scoured off the upper layer of skin entirely if he'd really wanted to. But there's something to be said for standing under a spray of steaming hot water, feeling all the grime and unpleasantness being aggressively sluiced away. Until his skin is prickling and hot to the touch, and he can't feel anything else.

He wanders out naked, but he's dry and dressed again before he reaches his desk, snapped into inky-black pyjamas with a red trim, buttoned all the way up to his throat. Though Crowley's in no mood to sleep right now. Instead he throws himself into his gilded throne, one arm coiled over the side, one leg stretched out across the polished surface of the desk. The answering machine in front of him blinks slowly, red, red, red. 

He'd turned his phone off before he left. He rarely turns his phone off, but he hadn't wanted Aziraphale to call while he was - while he was working. He doesn't miss the way his throat gives a brief, mocking noise of disgust at that, calling him out on his own bullshit. Because the euphemisms and the subtleties are for Aziraphale. Crowley's long past needing them, or finding any comfort in them for himself. He hadn't wanted Aziraphale to call while he was in an expensive hotel room fucking strangers for work.

Honestly, he'd been sorely tempted to just nudge the man into unconsciousness and call it done. But he's been slacking off too much lately. He doesn't need another reprimand, doesn't need the attention, or the call back to Hell it'll get him. Or worse, the risk of getting his quota of vexations and curses upped. Unfortunately, there's no pretending he doesn't know what 'personal attention' means. It means 'do the bloody job yourself.' It means 'make sure your Hellish corruption gets under their skin.' It means 'be charming, be irresistible, and then spread your fucking legs.'

Sometimes it really is that easy, humans - especially the ones Crowley is forced to be around for work - tend to see what they want to see, and most of them are selfish enough not to question it when they get it. But this one had wanted to buy him drinks, had wanted to talk, to know what he liked, what he wanted done to him. Not through genuine curiosity, oh no, this one had used it as an excuse to offer obscene suggestions and subtle insults, that gradually grew less subtle and more obscene as the drinks flowed. But Crowley had gone through the motions, all hips and overstated lean, slash of a smile that looked like it might bite under the right circumstances. Though he was never actually allowed to bite, and circumstances rarely favoured him. Which was a shame, since he was a giant, venomous snake when he wanted to be. 

Not that any of it had mattered in the end either, Crowley could have glared the whole time, answered every stupid question with an insult, and the arrogant prick would still have taken him upstairs. Would still have called him a whore and pushed him to his knees, tugging the sunglasses from his face and tossing them aside. The only Hellish power he'd used was to convince the man he had perfectly normal eyes, thank you very much. Nothing to see here. It had taken barely more than a suggestion, since none of these arseholes ever really paid attention. Assignments like these usually ended the same way, with Crowley on his knees, or shoved up against a wall, behind some tavern or pub with a shitty reputation. Or he'd follow back to someone's rooms, paid or otherwise, in varying levels of expense, a human he'd already forgotten the name of making noises on top of him, or under him, while he tried to fake something in the way of enthusiasm. But at least he hadn't needed to try for very long with this one, once Crowley's face got shoved into the pillow he could look as disgusted as he liked. Nothing like doing Hell's tedious, dirty, humiliating work for it to make you feel like a valued fucking employee.

But it was nothing he hadn't done hundreds of times before. Nothing he won't do another hundred times, he supposes.

The machine light continues to blink at him, red, red, red. He really should listen to the angel's message. Or better yet, just call him back, he doesn't need to know what Aziraphale wants, only that he wants something. That's always been good enough for Crowley. He finds himself reaching out and pressing play, just to hear his voice.

Aziraphale's message starts half way through a word, he always forgets that he can't start talking before the beep, so he has to repeat the first half again, sounding apologetic and slightly flustered. He asks Crowley to call him once he gets in, no rush, he was just checking in. But Crowley knows him well enough to hear the possibility of dinner plans and wine evenings in the warmth of his voice. And who is Crowley to disappoint a friend?

The phone rings half a dozen times, and Crowley has a series of entertaining mental images, of the angel half way up a ladder, or in the middle of making himself a cup of tea, or perhaps tottering a pile of books around looking for a place to put them down, so he could pick up the phone. He's honestly not sure which one appeals to him more.

But the phone is answered eventually.

"Hello?" It's cautious, possibly on the off-chance that Crowley might be someone who wants to buy a book from him. Crowley would never, he knows how much every single one of them means to Aziraphale, and he's spent centuries ensuring that he's responsible for book addition and never book subtraction.

"Aziraphale." Crowley draws it out, enjoys the curl of it in his mouth, the familiar, comforting taste of it.

"Oh, Crowley." No one but the angel is ever that pleased to hear his voice, no one but the angel ever makes his name sound like that. Half of Hell still occasionally called him Crawly, as if it hadn't been two thousand years. "I tried to call you earlier, I forgot you said you had work." 

Crowley can just about hear the sliding shuffle of books. As if Aziraphale had set down a pile he'd had in his other arm. There's a good chance that the angel will get distracted after their call, and Crowley will find the books in exactly the same place the next time he visits. 

"Yeah, angel, I got your message. I just got in." 

"Ah, well, I hope everything went alright."

Crowley lets himself slide down further in the throne, bones settling at strange angles in its hard frame. He can feel the tension slowly easing out of his neck in quiet clicks, as he rocks his head from side to side, then back and forth.

"Yep, all sorted out."

Aziraphale makes a brief 'ah' noise, as if he's pleased for him. He has an assortment of pleased noises, and Crowley's fairly sure he's heard all of them over the years. It's been something of a long-term mission to find out which ones he can be responsible for. Whether they can be chained together for maximum efficiency. Or if Crowley's ever going to stop being happy to hear a single one of them.

"Nothing I could help with?" Aziraphale asks, and Crowley doesn't miss the note of hope in his voice. He spares a moment to be indulgent and imagines that the angel is angling for an excuse to see him, that it's an honest desire for his company.

Crowley had spent years making sure that Aziraphale doesn't find out about any of the 'personal attention' assignments that he's given. Though he suspects the angel is smart enough to realise that there are certain assignments Crowley's held back from their arrangement, due to their especially Hellish nature. Oh, Crowley knows Aziraphale wouldn't think badly of him, they both have their miserable quotas to fill, their unpleasant superiors to avoid. He's been asked to do worse for Hell after all. It's just - well, it's just the depressing grubbiness of it all, spreading Hell's influence that way. Watching people give in to their greedy, selfish impulses, convincing them to do all the things they were ashamed of, that they protested against, but secretly wanted. He doesn't want to make Aziraphale think of that - doesn't want him to think of Crowley like that.

"Nah," he reassures him, which is the truth, it's nothing Aziraphale could help with. "Just a routine temptation, the usual unpleasantness. In and out. Not a big deal." Satan, he's a fucking comedian now.

"Oh, well then, I do hope I didn't disturb you."

Crowley draws out a low noise, as if Aziraphale is being ridiculous.

"Course not, you're never a bother, angel. Disturb me any time." Please, by all that's unholy, disturb him any time. There is literally nothing he'd rather be doing - though he's not stupid enough to say that. There's no easier way to sound fucking desperate. Even if Crowley swears he can hear the smile on the other end, even if he's fairly sure that Aziraphale wouldn't mind.

Aziraphale gifts Crowley another pleased noise, this one all for him, no charge.

"Splendid, well then, since you're free, would you like to meet for dinner tomorrow - or, well, I suppose it's today now, isn't it? There's a new Italian place, and I didn't want to go without you."

_'I didn't want to go without you.'_ Crowley's brain catches on that for a minute, digs into it with claws and hauls it some place dark and deep where he can keep it safe. 

"Oh, say you'll come." Aziraphale sounds excited, he does love the anticipation of a new place to eat, a new menu to try, new desserts to indulge in. Honestly, Crowley doesn't care where they eat, he never has done. He's happily sat next to Aziraphale in the dirt, eating burnt barbecue food and drinking thickly bitter wine, while old men argued about the speed of a tortoise. There is nowhere Aziraphale could invite him that he wouldn't be happy to join him. The food may be the focus for Aziraphale, but Crowley is much more invested in the company, and, unlike the food, that's never disappointed him.

"Of course I'll come, angel, wouldn't miss it. Shall I pick you up at six?" And if he indulges in the idea that the invitation is more than it is, well, no one has to know.

"Six is perfect," Aziraphale reassures him. "I do have some inventory to go through first. Ah, and there's still a few boxes I haven't managed to sort properly yet, from that book fair last week. There's a good chance I'll get distracted and lose track of time, you know how I get." 

He does, he does know how Aziraphale gets, and the acknowledgement of it, the familiarity of this conversation, never fails to warm Crowley all the way through.

"If I'm in the back just come in and dig me out." The angel offers that almost teasingly, and Crowley can't help but pretend that it's a subtle suggestion, something close to permission - that if Crowley was to find him among the stacks, bright-eyed and rumpled, buried in sub-standard editions, and ancient reference cards, he could hold a hand down and have it grasped warmly in turn. That he could draw the angel to his feet, invite him out, anywhere he would like.

Maybe Aziraphale would smile, maybe he would be flustered, maybe he would simply say _yes_.

"Dig you out, got it, I'll see you later, angel."

Aziraphale says goodbye, he always says goodbye, he'd probably consider it terribly rude not to. Though for Crowley it's all warmth, as if he refuses to understand the actual meaning of the word. Crowley resettles the phone on the table, and eases both feet up on the desk, one crossed over the other. His whole body feels relaxed, warmth seeping into him from somewhere it shouldn't be able to travel from.

Sixteen hours until he has to pick up Aziraphale.

He has more than enough time for a quick nap first.


End file.
